Gift of the Maia
by Ban'dinoriel
Summary: Saruman the White. Gandalf the Grey. Radagast the Brown. Everyone knows of them, of their tales. But what of the two Blue Wizards, seemingly forgotten by their own Order? Conflicting stories abound of their exploits, some lauding their success and others lamenting their fall to Darkness. What if they were simply hidden, leaving their own marks on the story of the world?
1. Descent into Darkness

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize is not mine, I'm just hopping into the sandbox for a little while.

* * *

One of the most commonly-held beliefs about death, especially by those who are about to die violently, is that time slows down and one can see their whole life stretched before them as if on a film reel. Every decision, every word and thought and deed, stretched out to be cross-examined by both the one about to die and whatever Spirit makes the initial judgment of where the soul will end up going. Every triumph, every sorrowful event and celebration...every regret.

And for the two Wizards who fought desperately to stay within the realm of the living, there were so many regrets. So many centuries, filled with laughter and joy before sliding to weariness and sorrow with just the barest tint of despair. Grief for those who were lost, both without and within; let it never be said that one may journey anywhere without losing - changing - part of themselves in the process.

_They met on the white sands, as they so often did, listening to the sounds of the waves. It was a calming little tradition, a place where the pair could meet and talk about...everything, really. With the Halls of Nienna in the distant view, it was somehow easier to reveal their innermost hearts to each other. They were as close as brothers, despite not actually being blood-kin, and there were no secrets between them. There was even a running joke between many of their fellow Maiar that the pair shared a mind, as they often completed each other's sentences and actions without seeming to realize it._

_"I am to journey to Middle-Earth," said Alatar musingly, considering the distant horizon as Pallando listened attentively, "by the will of Lord Oromë. To aid the peoples there as best I can, through encouragement and enlightened persuasion to do good things rather than heed the Darkness. To aid in the fight against the Darkness, and our fallen kin. It will be a long journey, and I do not know when I would be able to return." He paused then, turning his head to side-eye his companion with an all-too-familiar expression that caused a shiver to run down Pallando's spine._

_"I would like you to come with me."_

Narrowing his eyes against the flashbangs of the enemy, Alatar lifted his staff and barked a swift string of syllables. The ground shivered before liquifying into pools of quicksand, swallowing the incoming wave of cultists eager to spill their blood. Their battle cries quickly faded to silence as he turned to check on his companion, who was busily fashioning a makeshift tourniquet out of a ragged strip of his cloak. Pallando's face was pale, teeth gritted as he struggled to wrap the bloody cloth tightly enough around the ragged stump of his forearm. Powerful beyond mortal compare the Wizards were, but even they were not immune to death by exsanguination.

Alatar swore quietly under his breath, casting a quick glance around them for danger before hurrying to his best friend's side to take over. This was not the first ambush the pair had encountered, but it was certainly far more organized, equipped and a hell of a lot more zealous than the previous encounters had been. Once, the pair had been clad in stunning azure cloaks; now, the beautifully-crafted cloth hung about them in bloody, scorched tatters.

"This is bad," Pallando said grimly, proffering his wounded arm as he took over watching their surroundings. The fingers of his still-intact hand curled into a fist, old and withered perhaps but still strong. "And we're getting sloppy. This," he twitched his mangled arm and winced as the tourniquet tightened in response, "should never have happened. We should have seen them coming, their tactics aren't exactly subtle..."

"But now they are," replied Alatar with a frustrated sigh as he finished tying off the tourniquet. "There is a heaviness in the air, can't you feel it? Some kind of...miasma, nothing that can be seen but only felt. It's clouding our minds, slowing our reactions. And foolish though these misguided mortals be, there's something different about them. Yet...there's also something familiar, as well." He shook his head slowly, pushed grey out of his eyes and took a slow breath. "It's almost as if they don't care about their own lives, or even about stopping us. It seems like they're trying to..."

"...Stall us..." Pallando finished with narrowed eyes, pushing himself up to his feet shakily and leaning heavily on his own staff. "Whatever it's for, it can't be good. This has been the fifth ambush just today, and we've been running on how many days now of this? We need to get out of here, figure something out or we may have to just abandon this area completely. The Dark may be too entrenched here for us to be able to do anything about it by ourselves. I know you hate the thought of it, but it's true, and no sense in us throwing our lives away when we could be completing our work elsewhere. Let the covens we taught deal with their own kind." Alatar looked at him with no small dismay, but Pallando merely stared back at him unflinchingly. A voice of reason, Alatar had called him so long ago, where reason is not particularly desirable.

_"Why me?"_

_Alatar didn't answer for a time, merely tracing idle patterns in the sand at their feet. "You balance me," he finally replied, "with your logic and critical thinking. I know I can be...impulsive." Pallando merely rolled his eyes at that statement of obvious fact, waving a hand for him to continue. "At least I recognize it, eh? You never hesitate to tell me when you think something is going too far, or hasn't been considered all the way, or is outright a foolish idea. I...could use your blunt honesty."_

_A raised brow, an expectant face. Pallando knew his friend far too well to buy that as the only reasonings._

_A sigh, then a soft chuckle. "No getting out of it, I guess? Then let me be plain - I would miss you, my friend, and would much rather journey forth with you by my side rather than alone."_

_Pallando considered this for a time, studying his oldest friend carefully. There was never any doubt that Alatar had a good heart, but he also had a troublesome tendency to not always give all the information about anything. It was never out of malice, but a simple excitement. Eagerness, almost childishly pure, to do and live and enjoy life to the fullest. It was an endearing trait - most of the time - but it often got them into quite a bit of trouble that could have very easily been avoided. Weighing the pros and cons, Pallando closed his eyes and sighed, then slowly nodded. "There are conditions, I suppose? Restrictions by which we must abide?"_

_"Of course...you will go with me, then? You make my heart most glad, my friend." Embracing his companion, Alatar smiled happily. Wide, untainted and truly joyful. "We will take on the form of Wise Elders, for the mortals tend to heed most the advice of those who have clearly lived long enough to know what they're talking about. Who've experienced enough to be able to give true and sound advice to the younger generations. We will go to the Easternmost lands, and work back from there." He paused, taking in Pallando's thoughtful expression and pre-empted the next question. "Curumo, Olórin and Aiwendil were also tasked to go, though they will be going to different areas within their own talents. It will definitely be a journey for the ages."_

Hissing through gritted teeth, Alatar clenched his fingers upon his staff and looked away. He knew the truth as well, it was plain to see, but he so hated to leave a task unfinished once begun, necessity or no. It simply galled him, that they could be turned aside without much apparent effort, they who were the Blue Wizards. But there was no sense in arguing with Pallando, especially when he got that particularly stubborn expression on his distressingly pale face. Perhaps retreat was indeed in order, if only a temporary measure to see to their wounds before returning to the fray. But alas, it was not meant to be.

"Well, well, well...look what we have here. Two lost lambs, stumbling through the dark."

The pair stiffened and looked about, both inwardly cursing this new voice. It was soft and sultry, feminine and inviting and damning all at once. A woman, dressed in flowing robes emblazoned with an eye, stepped out from a half-burned copse of trees to assess them, immediately followed by an escort of six men armed with bow and sword. Dark of hair and eye, she smiled as she took in their ragged state. "You needn't suffer any longer, you know. There is rest, healing and food nearby, in our temple. Everything will be made aright, if you will but lay your burdens aside."

"If it please you, Lady," Pallando said stiffly, "we'll take our chances elsewhere. You bear the same sigil as the madmen who attacked us, and we'll have no part of it."

"Madmen?" The woman laughed gently, shaking her head. "You misunderstand, they were not mad. Merely enlightened and...well, perhaps they were a bit over-enthusiastic. But that is of no matter anymore, you will be safe within our walls. No one will raise a hand to you."

"A lie, and a poorly hidden one," Alatar said in turn. "We know your measure already, the 'kindness' you show to those who don't convert to your way of thought. There was another village nearby, maybe a day's ride back, slaughtered to the last man and each bearing the brand of that eye."

"Not the children," the woman countered with a hint of pride. "We do not slaughter children; the young should be preserved, to be guided along the true path in their own turn. There are other temples who would have slaughtered that village to the last babe in arms, but we are not so barbaric as that. Come, will you not see for yourself? See the Truth, or at the least, allow me as the High Priestess to speak to you of why we do what we do?"

Rather than answer Pallando reached out to grab Alatar's arm, shaking his head warningly. "We can't afford it," he said quietly, shifting his feet to try and keep from swaying visibly. "Not now. We leave, and hopefully we won't have to fight our way out of this. Plus now that we know where this place is..."

"...the other covens can band together to take care of it," finished Alatar with visible frustration. "Good thing we took the time to teach them the fundamentals, eh? Fine. Your way. Let's go." His fingers tightened on his staff again, wishing his aged body did not ache so. Wishing that he never asked Pallando to come with him...wished that he had never been asked to go in the first place.

"Leaving so soon? How unfortunate." The Priestess sighed, shaking her head in disappointment. "I had hoped we could speak on the matter, but the Teachings are clear now. And where the others failed, we will succeed!" Lifting her arms, scores of new cultists answered the signal by stepping from the shadows, the treeline, the hills themselves to surround the Wizards. At a note from their leader they took a collective breath, then began to sing a single, cohesive note.

It was Pallando who recognized it first, head cocked slightly in confusion before his body stiffened. This was indeed familiar, and painfully so. He squeezed Alatar's wrist, eyes wide with dismay. "Remember how you were wondering where they learned it all? Why it seemed so familiar? Listen...they must have split off from the groups we taught and perverted it to this!" Alatar stared at him uncomprehending, the mere thought of such a thing being utterly abhorrent to him until he too recognized the weaves of power tucked neatly behind the Song. His face paled and he swayed on his feet, shock almost buckling his knees were it not for Pallando struggling to hold him upright. Were either of them to fall here, there would be no getting back up again.

Weary though they were, the two Wizards heaved a sigh as they looked at each other, linked their arms and focused their own power. Matching the Dark power raised, through strength and determination. But they were wounded and weakened, and the cultists fresh and strong and in a place that already favoured their twisted magic. As the Dark Song began to shiver the air, it split into a chorus of painfully harmonic notes that ruffled the Wizards' tattered hems. The pair began to chant in unison, but the many were also of one mind, and singularly focused on their destruction even at the cost of their own lives. Their leader was no novice in magical works either, skillfully weaving her followers' lives and songs into one devastating ritual. Even the ground below them seemed to shiver and hum, the Faithful who had been slain by the Wizards lending their death-wishes to the rite to destroy these enemies of the Dark.

"From Darkness we are born," cried the Priestess as the power came to its height, ecstatic and so very determined despite the utter certainty of death, "and to the Darkness we return!" Her followers began to drop, each dying where they stood with a smile as their life essence was drawn out and the magic clashed with the desperate weavings of the Wizards, each fighting for dominance before detonating against each other in a massive explosion that cratered the land. Nothing remained of the cultists, nor of the Wizards; only glass, tainted and cooling, marked the place where they had all once stood. The air shimmered, heat-haze mingling with the distorted magic as the glass reflected images not consistent with the skies above them; a red sky, a blue sky, black and purple-bruised clouds against a starless night. A rift between worlds, where the Void itself began to seep through before it collapsed against itself.

* * *

Back in Valinor, in the Undying Lands where the Valar lived and took counsel amongst each other to best safeguard Arda against the Darkness, the days continued on untroubled. No sickness or Darkness touched those lands, and the Light shone through everything from the Elves who lived there to the very grass and stone beneath their feet. But one day, there came an anguished wail from within the Halls of Nienna, the Vala in question fleeing to the Halls of Her brother, Námo, for He as the Doomsman of the Valar knew nearly all that was and ever would be.

But the Halls of Awaiting were not the calm, peaceful place they normally were. The shades of the Dead were restless, troubled though they themselves did not quite understand why. Deep within the Halls lay the great looms upon which Vairë the Weaver clothed Her husband's domain with the history of the world. A number of Her handmaidens were gathered, watching in dismay as their mistress worked feverishly upon a new tapestry. Finally the last threads were tied and cut, the Weaver leaning back with a sigh before shaking Her head abruptly as if to clear Her thoughts. Gazing upon Her own work with the horror of a dreamer unsure if the nightmare that had ensnared them was truly over, Vairë the Weaver screamed.


	2. Dreaming Abyss

Death smiled at the soul cradled in Her fingers, the last memories of its former life slipping away from it like raindrops that were in turn absorbed by the eternal entity. Such a troubled, painful life this one had had; Death shook Her head in sorrow and held it close like a child. Though She had taken its memories, the fear and violence that had consumed its unfortunately short incarnation were still very strongly imprinted upon the soul itself. It would take a decent amount of time in the healing Void, free from such things, before She could consider this soul ready for rebirth. A shame, really - She loved watching souls being reborn. The process was always the same, yet each time it was also always different. Death released the soul from Her grasp, watching it hover uncertainly for a few moments before it fled.

All things in their time. Death turned Her attention to another soul that wandered by, catching it like a butterfly and examining it just as gently. Hmm...not yet, this time. It needed a little bit longer. Releasing it, She turned Her attention inwardly to coordinate with the many splintered shards of Herself, each doing the same thing in various areas of the endless expanse - examine souls, relieve the newly-dead of their memories in careful increments, and guide them back into new vessels to continue the Eternal Cycle. For eons She had existed thus, ever since the concept of death in any form had first come into being. Though She wore many different guises according to the beliefs of different planes, different worlds, there was always only ever one true Death. And She loved Her work, tending to the creations of Her twin and mirror, Life. The pair worked in tandem, creation and destruction and renewal contributing to the Eternal Cycle.

Something twitched at the edge of Her perception; something unusual enough to catch Her attention was a fairly rare occurance. There were those who sought Her favour, Death Priests of various flavours and planes calling upon Her power to work miracles or tend to the affairs of their worlds, but those were a familiar tug. This was...something different. A rogue soul, banished to Her realm from one of the closed-off planes. Some had formed so, the souls within still touched by Her but kept within the confines of their plane, unshared by the multiverse at large. She was never overly fond of those planes, believing that they were deprived of the wider experience by being contained so, but that was simply the way it was. There were those who wrought such havoc, monsters and creatures of the Abyss and even those simpler beings who were simply so tainted that they tapped into the darkest of powers, that they were banished to the Void; such souls She imprisoned and siphoned power from, or contained in the deepest reaches of Her realm so that they couldn't cause trouble save by being personally called, and even then their powers were greatly limited by Her restraints. But this...

Death's core consciousness, followed by Her attendants and no small number of curious souls - for it was not often that Death took such a personal interest in something - headed for the rogue soul...souls? There was more than one? That was definitely unusual, though at least one of them was...

The soul drifted aimlessly through the Void, seething and despairing without really knowing why. The fragment of Death attempted to take its memories, as was normal procedure, but the soul itself was resisting the gentle touch. She tried harder, unraveling the threads of memory from the rogue soul, but this merely pulled on the emotions attached to them and enraging the soul further. It struggled to free itself from Her grip, nearly succeeding on more than one attempt - a rarity, even among the most battered and berserk of souls.

It...He?...had to find someone. Someone important...someone who didn't deserve what happened. It was all his fault. All _their_ fault. Had to find...who? Who was it, that should never have been there? Never chosen, only coming because he had asked.

Pallando...

At that moment, memories came rushing back like a waterfall. Alatar remembered himself, remembered everything, and the fragment of Death paused in Her attempts to take his memories in surprise. He remembered the life they'd once lived, back in Middle-Earth and even earlier when they still lived in Valinor. The easy camaraderie between them, getting into and out of scraps. The scoldings, the near-misses. The time spent in calm reflection, just the two of them, contemplating life. The mission they'd been given by the Valar, the works they had done in service to that mission. The mortals they taught the basics of magic, who soaked up the knowledge like sponges...

The mortals who **stole** the knowledge. Perverted it into something truly evil, then used it against them.

They would pay...one day, they would pay for their perversions and their crimes against Life and Magic.

And Pallando would be avenged.

Deep in the darkest reaches of the Void, where even those souls with no understanding of anything at all avoided at all cost, a Presence began to stir. Death's restraints, such as they were, were consumed by the Presence. She had not bound it too harshly, since it seemed fairly content to stay and brood in its little 'corner' of the Void and only rarely bat at random planes. But now, called by the potent cocktail of fury, self-recrimination and regret, the vast consciousness that had spent Ages seething in the Dark, neither forgetting nor weakening over time, began to take an active interest in this spark of fury. It was a powerful thing, this spark, one that the Presence had not felt since before being struck down and cast into the Void. A soul of similar origin, though of far lesser power.

A Maia.

The concept of a smile danced across a nonexistent face, as the Presence began to gather itself to study, then corrupt this wayward soul. Life existed to serve Him, to destroy in His name before being destroyed in its turn when it was no longer useful.

For He was Melkor, branded Morgoth, the greatest and first among the creations of Ilúvatar. All life should be honoured to bow before Him.

The Fragment of Death that was attempting to ease the soul into oblivion was itself consumed; Death Herself was a force beyond reckoning, second to none, but this was a mere splinter of Her consciousness. The barest fragment of Herself, and when compared to an entity of such magnitude as Melkor, was easily overwhelmed and obliterated. Death would not fail to notice such a thing, but He believed Himself easily a match against Her. He gathered His darkness around this condemned soul, whispering poison into its heart to turn it into one of His willing pawns. It would not be quick, for this was also a proud soul, but there was more than enough doubt and grief and fury that it would eventually submit to him. All it would take was time, and that was something that they had more than plenty of in the deep Void.

Death paused in Her unhurried advance to the rogue souls, feeling one of Her shards being torn apart and consumed by one of the greater horrors that lurked in the darkest corners of Her realm. Anger touched Her then, a rarely-felt emotion, as the last memories of that fragment settled within Her mind. The penultimate soul of one of those closed-off planes, long content to brood in the Dark, had dared to consume one of Her fragments and take one of Her souls for His own. Time, it seemed, had only restored the entity's arrogance and not so much any common sense. She considered Her options for a few moments, then elected to continue on Her current path. The entity wasn't going anywhere, and even if He corrupted the stolen soul beyond hope of repair, there were still uses it could be put towards. Splintered just right, it would be a fitting gift for Her twin and mirror, Life, to create the necessary darkness in every new heart that was created. But She would not forget this slight, and once Her task was done, She would be taking Him to task on His presumption. After all, there was plenty of time to teach the arrogant bastard some proper respect. All eternity, in fact.

The darkness was rather soothing, velvet soft and warm like a long-loved blanket. The soul that once called itself Pallando drifted aimlessly for what seemed like eternity; Time, like virtually everything else, was nothing more than a concept in the Void. There was no time, no space, only the endless expanse of the Void within which to wander. Thoughts began to fall away, sloughed off like water, leaving behind the memories that shaped the soul and the life that had come before. It was so easy, such a relief, to let go of the pain and struggle that had been existence. Eventually the soul would lose all sense of self and memory, floating aimlessly in the Void in a pure and blank state until it was eventually pulled one way or another into a new body. It would be good, to start anew. At last, he could finally rest and not have to worry about...

About...

The soul paused in its drifting, trying to recall who it had been so worried about. It had been...someone very important, but the memory of who it was was now so very vague. How long had it - he? - been wandering, losing more and more of himself to the Void? The soul bobbed pensively, putting all the calm logic for which he had ben renowned in life to the understanding of his current situation and then to what he should do about it. First to stop and think, reflect and piece together. The memories of his life weren't really gone - not yet, anyway - but merely...suppressed. Hazy, like a dream. He had not been there long enough to have given himself to Death, to heal in the Void's calming embrace, waiting until his time had come for Life and Death to take him in Their hands and usher him to his next incarnation.

But wait...that should not be his fate. He should be in the Halls of Mandos, awaiting the End of All Things. Such was the fate of all those created by Ilúvatar who lived upon Arda. He had visited the Halls once on a whim, curious about where the Children went when their mortal existence was over, and this was most definitely not that place. That he was not there suggested that something was dreadfully wrong.

_You're right. You should not be here._

The thought confused him, for though it was definitely a thought it was most certainly not his own. There was a particularly ancient flavour behind the words, a sense of eternity so vast his mind shied away from it lest he go mad in the attempt to understand it. There was a haze around him that he'd not noticed until now, drifting away from him and restoring the memories of his life in the process. Then suddenly he was not alone anymore, floating in the Dark. A figure stood with him, brighter than white until he realized that it was not a being of Light, but an absence of Darkness. It was shapeless for a time, before resolving itself into a humanoid female figure.

"You...are Death," Pallando said flatly, noticing absently that he was back in his old body. Or was it simply an illusion, to comfort him in this strange place between worlds? He found he cared little, so long as he could communicate at last. The figure simply nodded in response to his words, flickering gently beside him. "We are in the Void...where is Alatar? We were separated. We...died." The words felt like ashes in his mouth, loss and failure bitter on his tongue as Death watched him calmly.

_Yes...and no. Generally speaking, when one is banished to this realm, there is a physical form left behind. Your soul was ripped from that body and sent here, but you carry none but the normal levels of darkness in your heart. You would not be here but by banishment, as your plane is closed off from the multiverse. You keep your dead to yourselves; here, the dead are reborn elsewhere from where they just lived. I must confess, I am unsure what to do with you._

Pallando frowned as She spoke, more thoughtspeech than actual words. A disconcerting thing, to be sure, but there were always worse means of communication. This was certainly a pretty pickle they'd landed themselves in, and speaking of... "And Alatar?"

_Your companion has...drawn attention to himself. This is My domain, but there are horrors beyond your imagination that lurk in the darkest corners of it, for this is where abominations and monsters are imprisoned. Fallen Titans, corrupted souls, Angels and Daemons and...Valar, to use your own terminology, are banished here. One whom I believe you are familiar with, in particular._

Pallando paled at the thought, denial springing to his lips though none of it was given breath. It couldn't be...and yet, Alatar always was the more emotional between them. He was always getting into trouble, ruled by his emotions, yet this time he'd managed to land himself into a mess that Pallando couldn't help him out of. He was nowhere near powerful enough or cunning enough to treat with Morgoth, and certainly not fool enough to believe he stood even a ghost of a chance of getting his best friend's soul away from the Great Enemy. Death watched him despair, considering the possibilities. This was a rare chance to plant a new seed into the multiverse, an interesting potential mutation of Her sister's creations. Death was not a malicious being, but occasionally She _was_ a bit mischevious if the situation allowed for it.

_I cannot send you back to your own plane. Not yet, at least. As a pair you came to My realm, and so as a pair you should leave it. And, it will take time to figure out exactly which of the restricted planes you came from. _

A bit of an obfuscation, but depending on his choice, this could turn out most entertaining. Pallando looked at Her curiously, sensing something was afoot but not quite sure what.

_I offer you a choice - you may stay here, and wait until your companion is restored to Me. Or you may choose to be reincarnated, to live again in one of these other worlds here, until I have reclaimed what is Mine, and you two may be returned to your proper plane together._

The Maia gazed at Her steadily, no doubt in his mind that there were risks no matter which option he chose. There was no way it could be otherwise; it was a trap either way, but there was always a lesser of two evils. "If I should go, what then? I will live a mortal life?"

_Yes. You will keep your magic, for it is an integral part of you. Your memories will be...hazy, like a dream, but still there. This cannot be avoided, for normally when one is reborn all memories of the past are gone from the start. They can be regained, of course, though few choose to do so. The weight of their memories tends to drive many insane, and so they come back to Me sooner than was ever intended for them. And should you return before I have your companion in hand, then you will be reborn again, still with your memories intact._

Well, didn't that sound pleasant. "And if I should choose to stay?"

Death waved a hand to the twinkling Void, littered with souls and swirls of light that marked distant planes. _Then here you will remain, until I have reclaimed the soul of your companion. This is, however, the place where souls come to rest between their lives. Though I will not actively be trying to take your memories, the longer you spend here increases the chance of them slipping away, with the eventual possibility that even once I do reclaim Alatar's soul, you will not want to return to your proper plane. You may wish to stay here, to rest and forget, until you are as pure as a newborn soul with no memories of pain and life, and eventually you will be reborn somewhere here, to continue the Great Cycle._

And there it was, the trap within the trap. Both options were dangerous, but a choice had to be made. He knew that She would abide by whatever decision he made, but...it was difficult, this choice. Death, seeing his hesitation, spoke again.

_I cannot say with any certainty how long it will take to retrieve your friend's soul. The attention he attracted is of one of the greater beings who were banished here, and though time is immaterial here, it will not be a swift retrieval and healing. The choice is yours; what will you do?_

Pallando looked away into the distance, weighing his options. Contemplating the best course of action, the risks of rebirth against the risk of staying in the Void. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and hoping he wasn't about to damn himself before turning back to Death. "Very well. I choose..."


End file.
